While You Were Away
by ValaEnVash
Summary: Continuing a few days after 'Smile', revelations are made. Rated 'M' for possible sexual content and language. (Rating didn't really change, but I hope you like it anyway.)
1. Intro

This story continues a few days after 'Smile'.

Please feel free to read and review at your discretion.

Thank you!


	2. The First Time

As per usual, I own nothing in the way of the characters or the current rights the BBC, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss may retain. I do have a book though (_The Greatest Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_), and a serious love of these characters. So, enjoy the lapse from reality and let me know what you think.

_**In which John Watson explains, to a recently-resurrected Sherlock Holmes, how he very nearly lost himself.**_

Sherlock laid curled into John's side with his head cushioned on John's chest. He could now easily see how much weight his friend had lost in the last three years. Each rib he counted felt like a burning ember flaring in his own chest. He listened as John breathed, as his heart thrummed, as muscles expanded, contracted, rested.

_I could've missed this. One wrong step and..._ He shut down that particular train of thought immediately, not wishing to even consider any other alternative.

Sherlock stroked his fingertips across John's surprisingly hairless chest, cataloguing the feel of his skin for later reminiscence. "John?" He felt the deep baritone of his own voice vibrate through John, then grinned to himself when John shuddered oh so lightly.

"Hmm?" John's arm curled around his lover's back allowing him cup Sherlock's shoulder, to hug him close, then stroke up to bury those fine digits into a nest of dark, messy curls.

Sherlock – momentarily stunned at how absolutely _good_ it felt – forgot he had said anything at all and just snuggled closer into John's side.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?... Oh! Well, I was curious..."

"When _aren't_ you?"John laughed low.

Not deterred, Sherlock continued, "You said you'd seen me before."

John froze. Sherlock would have cursed himself had he not bee prepared for this exact reaction. He'd even been prepared for John to pull away from him, move to sit on the edge of the bed, and begin attempting to control his breathing in order to stave off a panic attack. He was prepared for it, but it didn't hurt any less.

"John, I'm sorry. I am, but I... I want, I _need_, to know. Please."

John hung his head and gripped the mattress as if it were his anchor to Earth. If he let go... _Deep breath in, hold it _(one, two, three, four, five)_, breathe out slowly. Repeat until heart stops trying to leap from your chest._

"You were..." John's voice caught. He cleared his throat and began again, slowly and carefully picking through an emotional minefield. His allowed his gaze to be caught by the light reflecting through the rain on the window. If he looked at Sherlock now, he'd never finish.

"Sherlock Holmes was dead," John murmured. "My best friend... And I wanted to follow him."

_Oh god, John._ Sherlock felt his blood freeze. He'd pulled himself upright, intending to reach for his lover, but found himself suddenly incapable of movement or cogent thought. Therefore, any whimpers that might have crawled up from the pit of his soul could not be held against him...

"After the funeral, Harry stayed with me for a bit. Had a bit of an... episode, I guess you call it.. Fell, hit my head."

Sherlock watched his John absent-mindedly finger the faded line of scar tissue. Finally, John drew a deep breath (_bracing himself?_), straightened his posture, and turned to his lanky love.

"After I got him from hospital, I realized there were still things that needed doing. I needed to clear your name, _prove_ you weren't a fake." John poked Sherlock sharply in the chest. "I _still_ can't believe you tried to feed me that shit. Never again, Sherlock. Never. Again."

Sherlock only nodded in agreement, wide-eyed and silent.

John nodded once and scooted back to prop himself against the headboard, allowing Sherlock to settle beside him, resting his head on John's good shoulder and holding his hand. John was silent for a few minutes, fiddling with Sherlock's long fingers, stroking, and rubbing the soft skin and callouses.

"It was five months after the funeral before I came back to some form of reality. It was hard coming home and having everything exactly as I left it that morning." John chuckled at himself and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Lestrade and I had been working for weeks, searching for proof that Moriarty was behind everything. He would go to work at Scotland Yard, I would go to work at the clinic, and at the end of the day, we met at the pub or the flat or somewhere we could work on your case." John looked down to Sherlock, smiling a small John Watson-smile, the one Sherlock knew was just for him. "You know your buddy, Raz? Well, he and a few of his 'associates' started tagging places all over the city. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty was real. Richard Brook was a lie. _Things like that. Next thing we know, similar graffiti starts popping up everywhere."

Sherlock sat up slowly, watching John with confused awe clear in his eyes.

"People loved you, Sherlock. They mourned you when you were gone, defended you to anyone that said otherwise. Not one of your clients had anything bad to say. I had people defending me that I'd never met, simply because you were my friend and because I believed in you." He pulled Sherlock back to him, rubbing the soft skin of his back slowly, gently, before continuing. "I'll show you the websites with all the pictures. Got some from Russia, Australia. Even the States."

"Anyway, we'd been working for almost six months, close to non-stop, and the one-year anniversary was coming up. I'd just gotten off work, made my way back to the flat – even picked up dinner on the way! Well, I walked in and there you were, sitting in your chair and looking for all the world as if you'd just stepped out not ten minutes before."

John let out a shuddering breath, relishing in Sherlock's embrace. "I knew I was hallucinating but it didn't make it easier. Even as a figment of my imagination, you managed to make me feel like an idiot."

A pained "John..." fell from Sherlock's lips.

"No. Let me finish, please."

_The glow from the street lamps outside filtered through the flat windows, but the image of his dead friend didn't fade. Pragmatic as always, John pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Lestrade without looking away from "Sherlock"._

_'Greg, it's John. Yeah, I need to cancel tonight. That okay? … No, nothing's wrong. Just tired, I guess. Long few weeks, you know? … Yeah. … Yeah, no problem. Talk later? … Alright. Good night.'_

_John placed his phone back in his pocket, circled round to his own chair, and sat. He hardly knew what to expect, but was not taking the chance of breathing too hard in case 'he' disappeared._

_'John.'_

_'You're not real.'_

_It rolled it's eyes. 'Obviously.'_

_'Then why...'_

_'Because, apparently, you needed this.'_

_'Needed it? To what? Confirm I've gone round the bend? Yeah, no thank you.'_

_'And yet you continue speaking to me as if I _were_ real.'_

_That broke his heart, splintering it further. 'Sherlock. Why? Why'd you... _(Lie. Jump. Die. All of the above.) _Why? Is it something I could've helped you with? Oh god, is it something I _did?_'_

_'John, everything has a reason. You were my only friend. You knew my methods and are, even now, applying them.'_

_'Oh, that helps. Thanks.'_

_'It will. But you should probably rest now.'_

_'What? No!'_

_'Yes, John. You've got a lot ahead of you and it's going to get rough. Luckily, you aren't alone.' It smiled at him, a soft look John had only seen a handful of times. _

_John's eyes burned with unshed tears, prompting him to dig the heels of his hands into his face to stop the hurt. 'I can't do this without you. I can't...' The dam broke and tears burned tracks down his cheeks, choking him in their intensity. _

_'You can, John, because I know you are capable.'_

_John managed to laugh through the pain in his heart, smiled at the hallucination. 'Thanks.'_

"_Sherlock" just smiled and faded into nothing. _

"I fell asleep in that chair, watching the sun rise over London. Had cold Chinese when I woke up and realized what my next step needed to be. I called Sarah and gave my resignation. Called Harry to let her know I was alive. Then, I called Mycroft."

"What? Why?!"

"Because I realized that, no matter what he'd done, he sincerely thought he was doing the right thing. He was as devastated as I was, Sherlock. You're his _brother_, no matter what history there is between you." John sighed. "I couldn't forgive him yet, but I was willing to use his resources. Of course, considering he and Greg were pretty serious, it got to be a bit difficult to avoid Mycroft _all_ the time.

Sherlock 'hmm'-ed under his breath, scowled, and secured his arm around John as he snuggled into his warmth.

"It was strange at the time because, almost overnight, things started falling into place. Little more than 18 months later – just a little past the second anniversary – and it was done." Wonder suffused John's face when he smiled to the ceiling. "I didn't believe it at first. Greg delivered the pardons himself and the next few days are a blurry mess. I think Greg, Mycroft, and I drank our weight more than twice."

John chuckled at the fuzzy memories and resulting hangovers before looking down to his lover.

His Sherlock, who rested his head on John's hip and clutched John around the waist.

His Sherlock, the great beautiful thing, that shuddered through tears that felt as if they'd burn his very soul.

Alarmed, John slid down and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "Hey, hey. What's wrong, love?"

Sherlock gripped him tighter and tucked his face into the crook of John's neck, gasping for breath. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I never meant..."

John grasped Sherlock's face and kissed him silent, feeling shudders rack his body as he calmed.

"Sherlock Holmes. I forgave you a long time ago, alright?" John pressed kisses to the tear tracks on his cheeks as Sherlock nodded.

"I love you, John."

John grinned."Love you too, you mad man. I love you, too," and proceeded to show him just how much.


	3. Mary

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

_**In which John Watson tells Sherlock Holmes about Mary Morstan.**_

Over breakfast the morning after John's initial revelation, silence reigned. Nothing uncomfortable, of course. This was the kind of silence earned by years of acquaintance, understanding, and personal knowledge of your partner.

So, while John enjoyed his coffee and toast, he silently conveyed to Sherlock to just eat the damn toast and drink his damn tea or John would bloody well _not_ be held responsible for his actions. Pouting – but only a little bit – Sherlock complied, if only to see the self-satisfied smirk John would carry around for the remainder of the morning.

Since it was turning out to be one of those rare quiet days in 221B, John cleared up from breakfast, dressed, and grabbed his wallet and keys. _Best go before his boredom truly sets in..._

"Sherlock? I'm off to the market for a few things. Need anything?"

Arrested as he was by the sight of London below his window and the violin in his hands, Sherlock didn't reply immediately. However, a demand of "Get biscuits, John. The ones with the chocolate on." made John grin.

Biscuits. Of course.

Sherlock watched John cross Baker Street and round the corner, disappearing into the crowds and traffic.

He'd missed so much during his absence, had accepted that some things may never be the same while others would never change. The idea of not having John Watson to come home to had been an option, but not one he had been willing to entertain.

Without John by his side, he'd learned how imperative his blogger was, not only to his general health and well-being, but his thought process as well. Each time he'd turned to a John-that-wasn't-there, if only to think out loud, the dependence he'd developed on the Army doctor burned at him. It took weeks before he finally accepted it and started keeping their 'conversations' in his head.

With a sigh and a dramatic flounce, Sherlock twirled (_yes, twirled_) away from the window, walked over the low coffee table, and dropped boneless to the sofa to stare at the stains on the ceiling. Boredom was setting in rather more quickly than he expected, but with John out for the next little while, he'd be forced to entertain himself.

Ugh. God forbid...

He sighed again and turned to rake his gaze over the sitting room of 221B. Books, furniture, dust (_he smiled, remembering_), bits and bobs of John and himself spread and scattered throughout the rooms. Papers, having been caught by the draft created by his spin from the window, littered the floor.

Sherlock sighed again, rolled his eyes at himself, and dragged himself up. Old case notes, cold cases that bored him out of his skull, receipts and notes, card containing a sonogram print-out, more receipts, market list, pictures and newspaper clippings.

Wait...

_Sonogram?_

Nimble fingers plucked the card from the pile, pale eyes read the inscription four times (_just to make sure he could actually read the English words placed oh so carefully therein_), and knees attached to long, lanky legs folded, dropping their cargo back onto the sofa.

He couldn't look away.

It was wrong. It had to be wrong.

But the evidence... Sherlock Holmes could no more ignore evidence than he could not taunt Mycroft when it came to his latest weight loss attempt.

He'd memorized the card's inscription, deduced it as much as his frozen mind was capable of, and located the bean-shaped fetus in the sonogram in seconds.

"_John -  
All my love,  
- Mary."_

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he registered pounding footsteps on the stairs.

From the corner of his eye, he watched John place bags on the crowded kitchen table, and listened as his love muttered profanity toward the chip-and-PIN machine he'd tangled with in the checkout line.

"John," dripped, whisper-soft, from numb lips. He licked his lips and tried again, croaking, "John."

A pause from the kitchen, "Sherlock?" John poked his head into the living room, saw a pale and shaking Sherlock, and immediately went into Doctor Mode, dropping to his knees in front of the other man. "Sherlock? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Talk to me, love."

Pale viridian-and-ice eyes met his for a long moment while John checked for wounds (_none_), temperature (_normal, so no fever_), blood pressure and pulse rate (_a little fast, but nothing too alarming_).

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What happened?"

A trembling hand held out the card even as Sherlock implored, "John?"

Confused, John took the card and looked. Sherlock watched John's face transform from worried/confused/a little scared to realization, then quickly to happiness and joy. "Mary." The smile that split his lips was one Sherlock had not seen in years. _And he hadn't been the one to put it there._

Sherlock gathered the bleeding pieces of his heart, tucked them into his chest, and pulled the old armor over himself. His voice, now steady and a little cold, pierced John. "When were you going to tell me? After the child was born? Ever?"

Confusion now warred in John, but only for a moment. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock. "Oh, you magnificent idiot."

Frowning and not a little hurt, "I don't appreciate being patronized, John."

John drew himself up from the floor and sat next to Sherlock, still cradling the sonogram. "Mary Morstan. I'd forgotten all about this. Where'd you find it?"

"Forgotten?! How do you _forget_ something like _that_, John Watson?!"

John arched an eyebrow at him, "Not that hard when the baby's not mine."

Sherlock, visibly deflated, asked weakly, "Not yours?"

"Nope."

"Then.. Oh." He huddled into himself for a moment, curling his legs up into his chest to hide away the embarrassment.

"Yep."

"Right," he muttered.

John shook his head, amazed. "I can't believe you'd think I had a child out there I wouldn't lay claim to. Really, Sherlock..."

Sherlock drew himself upright, dropped his feet to the floor, and raised his chin in the haughtiest manner he was capable. (_Which, by the way, was extremely._) "I apologize, John. It was not my best deduction. But three years _is _three years. Anything could've happened..."

John smiled his crooked smile again. "Yes. I supposed you're right. Well," he said as he thrust himself to his feet, "I suppose you want to hear this particular tale?"

"Hmpf."

John busied himself making tea for himself and the overgrown man-child in the den. "After we managed to clear your name, there wasn't much else to do but go back to work at the clinic. I still consulted with Scotland Yard when they needed a medic on-scene. Not as often as I liked and it didn't pay nearly enough to cover the expenses of living in Central London, but it was something."

He finished each cup and set them down on the table in front of the sofa, nibbles on a plate to the side as well. Settling down into the leather with his back to the sofa arm let him drape one arm across the back while facing Sherlock. John grabbed for his own cup before continuing.

"I was filling in for another doctor the day Mary came into the clinic. For the life of me, I can't remember why she initially came in, but I _do_ remember seeing so many bruises on her, I couldn't believe she managed to stay out of A&E." Remembered fury at the brutality of the abuse simmered under his skin. He took a careful breath, forcing it down and allowing it to dissipate since the danger had long since passed.

"She tried to tell me it was nothing, but, as a doctor, I had unfortunately seen one to many instances of domestic abuse. I gave her a card for a local women's shelter." John chuckled to himself and looked to Sherlock fondly. "She rolled her eyes at me so hard, she reminded me of you. Had I not already admitted to myself that you were the only one for me, I likely would have married her right then and there."

John laughed loudly at the look of sheer disbelief on Sherlock's face. "What?! She was perfect!" He kept giggling, antagonizing Sherlock as much as he could get away with. "Seriously, she's beautiful, _really _smart, patient as hell. Best of all? No body parts in the fridge." John leveled a glare at Sherlock then, and Sherlock (being the genius he is) looked appropriately chastised... for a moment. "Regardless, she flat out refused any help the shelter might have provided."

"Why?"

"Well," John breathed deeply and sat back, tucking his feet under Sherlock's thigh and relaxing into the sofa. "She had a valid reason. Or one she was convinced was valid: The shelter would help, of course, but they could really only do so much before you had to leave. No matter if you had someone or somewhere safe. Apparently, she'd tried that route before with little success. So, I broke my own rules and gave her my mobile number."

"John!"

"I gave her my mobile number on the back of the card and told her to call me – anytime, day or night – if she needed any help." John rubbed the back of his neck, remembering the fear in Mary's voice when she'd taken him up on his offer. "She'd memorized my number, but the bastard that she was dating found the card in the bin and beat the shit out of her."

John scrubbed his hands over his face before dropping them to his lap. "I've been a soldier and I've killed people, yes. But I'm a doctor above all, and I don't think I'll ever understand why some people feel the need to take out their aggressions and insecurities on people they claim to love and care about." He shook his head to ride himself of the worst of the despair.

Sherlock, in a rare moment of empathy, wrapped his hands around John's ankles, drew his lover's feet into his lap, and began stroking the fine bones of his ankles. The soft 'John' smile the gesture earned him was immediately archived into his database as 'VERY Good'.

"She'd managed to get away from him long enough to get to her mobile, call me, and relay her location. I wanted to keep her on the phone – she was slurring from the concussion the bastard had given her when he threw her in a wall. Next thing I heard was him breaking down the door, her screaming, and then the call cut off." Thankfully, Sherlock's grip on John kept him anchored in the Here & Now.

"I immediately called 999 and Greg, and when I got there a few minutes later, I was very glad I'd done so." John sucked in a deep breath. "He'd stabbed her four times in the abdomen, Sherlock. She was bleeding out in the hallway and there he was, standing over her with this huge knife in his hand and a grin on his face."

"Oh god, John."

"I shot him. Right in the arm. Big bastard barely felt it. Next thing I know, he's running at me with that big fucking knife, so I shot him again." John arched an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Asshole he might be, but a bullet in the knee will put anyone down, I'm convinced of it." He got a signature eye-roll in return.

"Lestrade and his team showed up about the same time as the ambulance. It was close, but as you can deduce, she made it."

"Obviously." Sherlock watched John carefully, looking for any remorse he might be hiding at his 'loss' of Mary's affection. As much as it pained him, if he'd suspected even an ounce of it, he would have let this man go to find the happiness he deserved. "John, if Mary was so perfect, why are you not with her? What happened?"

John knew his friend, his flatmate, his love, and anticipated this. "Because I love _you_, you idiot. Yes, you were effectively dead, but I had nothing else to give anyone. I could have friends, mates, even the occasional shag, but romance? Love? No, Sherlock. It physically pained me to think of anyone... taking your place... I couldn't..." He choked on the words, felt his chest tighten and his eyes begin to burn.

"Oh, John." Sherlock reached for him, gathered him up, and pulled John forward so they now rested prone on the sofa: Sherlock propped up against one end with John laid out on top of him. Arms wrapped around waists, warmth seeping from one to the other, while both inhaled the scent of their partner and let it calm their nerves.

Once John had settled, he rubbed his cheek against the thin cloth covering Sherlock's chest and felt the thudding of the strong heartbeat beneath. "Mary and I became very close friends. She had nowhere to go after being discharged from Princess Grace, so I let her stay here." He felt Sherlock's hands stutter as they stroked up and down his back. "She slept in my old room since I'd taken up residence in yours. Took me a while to get used to having a flatmate again. Mrs. Hudson absolutely loved her. But Mary wasn't you and I think she knew it even before we really started trading histories."

John shifted, resettled with Sherlock's hand resting on the nape of his neck, and grasped at the soft cloth of Sherlock's blue dressing gown. "We both would go to work, come home, get dinner or take-away, even go for walks some nights." John lifted his head to look Sherlock in the eye, grinning stupidly. "Do you know, not once did _anyone_ mistake us for a couple? We'd be walking hand-in-hand, laughing together, sitting close at meals, and _not one time _did _anyone_ mention anything in the way of being a couple, boyfriend, girlfriend, or anything else. So, how, after knowing you for all of a handful of hours, did all of London automatically know what we didn't?"

Sherlock chuckled low and pulled John back down, hugging him tightly and pressing kisses to his graying blond hair.

"Anyway, we were at Angelo's one night when Lestrade called. He was just a couple of streets over and wanted me to give my 'expert medical opinion' since Anderson The Idiot decided a crime scene would be an excellent place to trip and give himself a concussion."

Sherlock snorted at the mental image, tried (not very hard) to hold it in, then burst into loud guffaws.

John giggled along, remembering what he'd walked into a few minutes later. "Lestrade had him in the back of an ambulance, chewing him out for not knowing how to use his own feet and taking the chance of contaminating a crime scene. Oh god, you should have seen it. I wish I'd thought to record it on my mobile."

Sherlock pressed another kiss to the crown of John's head. "I'd have paid to see that!"

"Well, Mary was a civilian and had no urge to actually _see_ anything, but after all the stories I'd told her about our adventures, she wanted to come along. I left her outside the cordon with Dimmock while I went in. I finished up in less than ten minutes, but it was too late." John huffed in false annoyance. "They'd clicked."

"Clicked?" John could see the confusion on Sherlock's face.

"Yes, clicked. Physical and/or sexual attraction. Personal chemistry between two interested parties."

The confusion cleared with a soft, "Ah" but was immediately followed with a furrowed brow. "Why didn't you just _say_ that, John?"

"Well, science aside, it was quite beautiful. You could see it anytime they were around each other, like magnets to metal. When Dimmock proposed to her six months later, no one said a word about it being too quick. It was _that_ natural between them."

"Like us?"

Had John not already been bonelessly relaxed, he would have melted right then and there. "Yeah. Like us." John stretched, kissing his love lightly, but lingeringly, before settling back into Sherlock's embrace. He looked to the table where the card and sonogram lay. "She had no other family, so I walked her down the isle. She was beautiful, Sherlock. Then, she sent me that about three months after the wedding. It hit me then that if she hadn't been around when she , things could have been so much worse."

"What do you mean?"

John hadn't really meant to let that last bit loose. He clenched his eyes shut and bit his lip, chastising himself.

"John?" Sherlock shifted him to the side, watching John's face intently and expecting an answer, but John continued moving away, and budged up against the opposite side of the sofa. "What do you mean?" he insisted.

John looked away, careful to avoid Sherlock's in-depth stare as he murmured. "Mycroft took my gun..."

A split second of confusion was immediately followed by pale, wide-eyed terror. Sherlock launched himself at John, knocking the breath from the doctor's lungs (_My god, he's so skinny, you'd never guess he had all that muscle in him._). John caught him carefully, feeling him shake and gasp. "It's okay, Sherlock. I promise. It's okay now," he crooned.

"Please, John. You said you forgive me. Don't, please."

"Sherlock. Sherlock! Look at me!"

John was caught for a few precious moments by the blue/gray/green/silver-hued dazzle of his love's vulpine gaze. "It was a long time ago, love. Everything's fine now. Mycroft gave it back about two weeks before I met Mary. He was protecting me, even if I did still hate him a bit for what he'd done to you, and even if it was protecting me from myself."

John cradled him close, rocking side-to-side as he eased the tension from them both. A deep rumbling baritone broke the silence a while later.

"I feel a bit foolish, John."

"What? Why?"

Sherlock rubbed his face against John's collarbone and the muscle of his chest. "For a moment – a split second only, mind you –, I was afraid you'd done exactly what I thought I wanted you to do."

Thank god he spoke 'Sherlock'. "What's that?"

"Moved on. Forgotten me," he whispered.

John held him close, pressed kisses to the curls tickling his nostrils. "Never."

Three weeks later, Sherlock finally met the infamous Mary Morstan Dimmock and, in front of all of New Scotland Yard, gathered her into his arms. He did nothing to disguise his tear-thick voice as he buried his face in her shoulder and chanted,"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Mary, ever the amazing woman she was, just smiled, wrapped her around around him, and held him.

'Freak' was never spoken in New Scotland Yard again.


	4. The Later Years

I do not claim any ownership of the characters within. Instead, they are simply my playthings for the moment.

_**The later years...**_

Sherlock will never tell why he suddenly decided to retire from the crime-fighting game at the ripe age of 54, but John thinks it may have something to do with a certain case that ended up with John on life-support for a week and a half.

It had been your bog-standard case of theft: Some idiot underling decided it would be a fantastically simple and amazingly easy way to get a huge wad of cash from their employer if they could get their hands on the company's newest weapons development. Unfortunately, the idiot (also know as Roran Carlisle to his friends and family) hadn't taken into consideration one simple thing: Weapons development meant someone had expressed a desire for something special and unique and were just itching to place an order.

This brought our duo to the Kensington end of Hyde Park on a rare and particularly beautiful night. Clear skies over London let the moon shine fat and full, lighting up even the darkest areas. Unfortunately, even as Sherlock tackled Roran to the ground, John was occupied with The Accomplice – also known as Jimmy Kimpler.

Jimmy, being young and dumb, moved a bit faster than our beloved Army doctor. This unfortunate fact found John tossed to the ground, breathless from impact, and relieved of his weapon. John had just enough time to focus on Jimmy standing over him before the retort of the gun ripped through the night air. John heard his husband's yell and the impact of two bodies as the darkness pulled him under.

Sherlock would never forgive himself for taking those few extra seconds to attempt to question Carlisle, but it seemed he'd fallen unconscious in the fight. Looking up to locate the other thug, he watched as John was tripped up and tossed to the ground. Sherlock was immediately up and running, but wasn't quick enough. He watch in horror as moonlight glinted off of dull metal and was deafened by the sound of gunfire.

Sherlock doesn't remember screaming John's name, but he does remember feeling as if he were flying to take down the one that would have shot John again, just to make sure John was dead. He was moving faster than he'd ever moved in his life, made his second tackle of the evening, and knocked the boy out with one well-placed punch to the jaw.

Sherlock gasped out John's name, begging for a miracle before scuttling over to his husband of almost 17 years. Blood poured from the wound in John's chest, so close to his heart. Sherlock immediately pulled out his mobile and called 999 before dropping the phone to the ground to try to staunch the flow of blood.

He hadn't been frightened in so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like. But looking up to his husband's face and seeing his beautiful blue eyes open and blank, feeling his heartbeat steadily slowing, a calmness washed over him and he knew: If John were lost to him, then it would not be long before Sherlock followed. He was not capable of being without him anymore than he could be without air to breathe.

Mycroft must have been monitoring them again because less than five minutes after the gunshot, three black sedans came tearing through Hyde Park, practically sliding over the dew-slick grass. Men in suits swarmed the area, taking Roran Carlisle and Jimmy Kimpler into the custody of the British Government. Three more rushed to John and Sherlock. Less than two minutes are arrival, the area was clear once more.

The bullet Kimpler fired into John's chest would have killed him had they been forced to wait on the ambulance services. They were just far enough away from main thoroughfares that the delay would have found John dead for at least five minutes. Sadly, his husband would have been found slumped over his body, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the temple made only seconds prior to the EMTs arrival.

As it was, he was currently on the receiving end of some rather spectacular CPR which kept his heart beating for the time it took to get him to St. Bart's. John was immediately rushed into surgery and the hole in the right ventricle of his heart repaired with no complications. The bullet, however, had lodged itself bare millimeters away from John's spinal column, so this took quite a bit of careful maneuvering to locate, acquire, and remove the offending object.

Sherlock – being Sherlock – requested the bullet be preserved. He would come to wear it on the delicate chain next to John's dog tags, taking it out at night to examine the groves and dents of the little piece of metal that almost took his heart from him.

In the surgery theatre, John's surgeon was just about to finish the procedure when his patient started seizing, reacting very badly to the anesthesia they'd administered. It took thirty minutes of very careful restraint and medication before John could be moved from surgery to recovery.

In the waiting area, Sherlock sat reclined in the unforgiving plastic chairs, legs crossed and eyes closed, holding John's dog tag to his bottom lip. He ignored the drying blood on his clothing and hands, had no need to consider the mud in his shoes, and refused to admit he might be slightly uncomfortable in the cold wetness seeping through his trousers. Instead, he fixed his blue diamond-and-viridian gaze on the doors leading to the surgery theatre and waited.

Luckily, almost everyone on staff knew Sherlock and John and were intimately familiar with the consequences of keeping them apart in dire situations similar to this. So, when the nurse bustling through those doors spotted him immediately, she motioned him forward and led the way to John. The surgeon stopped them outside the room and explained the situation: The amount of damage to John's heart was manageable and he predicted a full recovery. However, John would need to be very careful and take it easy for quite a while before he could even consider going back to work. When he explained the reaction John had had to the drugs he'd been given, Sherlock's knees went a little wobbly.

His John would be reliant on machines to keep him alive until his body was strong enough to do the job it had been built to do.

Sherlock steeled himself and pushed through the door. He was not too proud to deny the whimper that escaped.

The door opened behind him and closed softly and carefully. Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and, in a surprising display of gratitude, Sherlock reached up and grasped the hand tightly.

Without a word, Mycroft left, allowing his little brother to cross the room and perch in the chair at the side of John's bed. He remained there for the next 12 days, leaving only long enough to shower and change into the clothes his brother delivered daily.

John was deemed strong enough to be removed from life-support ten days after admission. His first unassisted breath had Sherlock in tears. So, when John woke up in the evening of the twelfth day, it was to a pale and exhausted Sherlock slumped over onto his bed and cradling John's hand under his head. John smiled, stroked what he could feel under his pinkie since it was his only moveable digit at the time, and fell into a deep, natural sleep.

Eighteen hours later, when John woke again, he was greeted with a radiant smile, teary eyes, and a kiss that threatened to stop his healing heart.

John remained in hospital another eight days to ensure no relapse, complications, or other problems his surgeon might have foreseen. He was inundated with friends and well-wishers. Even Harry and Clara made the trip to London to visit.

Four months later, John was given the all-clear and informed he was amazingly healthy for a man of his age. He attributed his good health to a steady diet of running after and managing his husband. (Sherlock hmpf'd good-naturedly but loved the warm glow he felt in himself knowing how true John's statement was.)

Two months after that, a near miss with a huge amount of explosives made up Sherlock's rather impressive mind: It was time to retire from The Game.

When he told John his decision, he feared his spouse was having a heart attack and shouted at John for scaring him ("_What the hell am I __supposed__ to think, John, when you go pale, grab your chest, and have to sit down before you fall over?!"_) Afterward, when he posed his conclusions, John agrees it would be fantastic and the matter is settled: Sherlock Holmes has retired.

Within the year, the couple have purchased a small cottage right outside of a village in Essex where Sherlock can raise his bees. John, ever the doctor, has opened a small practice he runs from a clinic about half a mile from their home. He quickly becomes he favorite of everyone in town with his treatment of patients. Not to mention his husband always has plenty of fresh honey and honeycomb for anyone interested!

John and Sherlock had been retired for fifteen years before Mycroft passed away. Sherlock was devastated in the way only he could be. Silence reigned at home for close to a full week as he grieved. John stood beside him during the funeral and made sure his husband ate, drank, and slept as need be. Two weeks after the funeral, Sherlock walked in from his hives, grabbed up his mobile and said simply, "Greg." Thank god John spoke 'Sherlock'.

Greg spent his remaining time in another cottage a few hundred yards from John and Sherlock's home, but followed his husband of over 35 years less than six months after the funeral. Neither John nor Sherlock grieved for long, knowing both men would be happy now, wherever they were.

In the summer of their own 35th anniversary, 20 years after he retired, Sherlock got sick. After all the years of drug abuse, his own heart had started to fail. Neither man was ready to be without the other for any period, but both John and Sherlock were wise men. They'd lived full and happy lives, running and chasing and helping to their heart's content. Because of their history, their own stories that had made them so famous, because of everything they'd accomplished, Sherlock refused to die in a hospital. As a matter of fact, he surpassed every medical expectation and lived (quite actively and very healthily) far longer than the eight months they'd forecast.

Instead, John and Sherlock celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary, Sherlock's 71st birthday, John's 76th birthday, and even the birth of Molly Hooper's first great-grandchild.

Frost covered the ground early that year and John was feeling it in his bones more than ever. Especially in his shoulder where the scar tissue left over from his time as a soldier had taken hold.

John banked the fire in the living room and turned off the lights as he retired to bed for the evening. In a move he'd almost forgotten, John stopped in the doorway of their bedroom and leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. There, in the bed and illuminated by lamplight, Sherlock leaned against the headboard, reading the latest articles published in the science journals he so loved.

The years had been kind to his husband. The only wrinkles adorning his face were those placed there by laughter or scowls, so the crows feet and lines across his forehead only leaned to distinguish their host. Black curls had given way to solid white, now pulled back in a queue at the nape of his neck. (Sherlock refused to admit he liked it because it made him look a bit like a pirate, but John knew better.) Those gorgeously unique eyes had not faded one whit, but the glasses Sherlock kept perched on his nose turned John on to this very day. (_Sexy, scholar-pirate, _John thought, and grinned.)

"If you continue lurking in the doorway, I may be forced to throw something at you." Sherlock peered over the rims of his reading glasses at his husband, and smiled at him. The years had been just as kind to his John, silvering his still-short blond hair, adding more wrinkles to his face, and weight to his middle.

"It hits me sometimes, out of the blue, how beautiful you are and how lucky I am to have been able to have you for so long." John's soft tenor struck a chord in Sherlock's chest, causing a flush to rise in pale cheeks. John laughed at his reaction, but straightened and made his way to bed, stripping his clothing as he approached. "what are you doing in bed so early anyway? It's just gone 8 o'clock."

The man still made Sherlock's mouth water, even after all these years. He cleared his throat before continuing but let his gaze wander over his husband. "Just tired. It's been a long few weeks and I think it's catching up with me."

Concerned, John dropped his shirt and climbed into bed before turning to Sherlock and placing a palm on his cheek. "You okay?"

Sherlock smiled and placed a kiss to John's palm. "Of course. I'd tell you otherwise."

John outright laughed at him. "No, you wouldn't, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grinned as he scoffed. "_Sentiment._"

The pair rolled into the other's arms, each settling into a warm and comfortable embrace made just for them: Sherlock curled into John's side, head resting on non-wounded shoulder and arm across John's middle. John lay on his back with one arm holding around Sherlock's shoulders while the other held the hand across his stomach.

At 2:35 am, Sherlock Holmes slept through a slight arrhythmia lasting approximately 15 minutes. He slept through the harder thud that followed soon after, but flinched and grasped at John's hand reflexively. He felt no pain, no fear, no alarm, when his beleaguered heart finally stopped at 3:04 am.

John, obviously sensing something amiss with his mate, pulled Sherlock closer and stroked his hand up and down his love's back. Unwilling to leave the other, even unconsciously, John pressed a kiss to white hair, breathed deep and sighed in his sleep. John Watson passed away, 15 minutes later, at 3:19 am.

Sherlock reached down to where John lay in the grass and, grasping his love's hand, pulled him upright.

"Okay. That's new. Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Where are we?"

"Taking into consideration we were both old men not a few hours ago and are now as young as when we first met?"

"Yes."

"Dead."

"Oh." John ran a now-younger hand through blond-again hair.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Right. Well, um... Huh."

Sherlock laughed at his obvious shock. "Come along, John. I'm sure we'll find something to get into." With that, he grabbed John's hand again and began walking, dragging his John along.

"Sherlock, I swear, if you get us kicked out of Heaven, Valhalla, Eden, the Elysian Fields, whatever-its-called, I'll never speak to you again."

"Pfft! As if I would, John. Really! I was thinking more along the lines of going back, trying life again."

"Already? We just got here!"

"Bored."

John growled at his husband. "If we weren't already dead, I'd kill you."

* * *

_**Thank you to everyone that alerted, favorited, and reviewed this sequel to 'Smile'. I had originally planned on several chapters, but didn't want to ruin. Hopefully, this ending will suffice.**_

_***Love***_

_**Vala**_


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